


The Croissant Question

by takingoffmyshoes



Series: Obligatory Bakery AU [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Gen, same time period different jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-18 09:52:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7310173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takingoffmyshoes/pseuds/takingoffmyshoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya finds himself caring about things he shouldn’t, and also perhaps in over his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> THERE IS NOW A MOST EXCELLENT PODFIC (IN PROGRESS) COURTESY OF ANNAPODS. GO LISTEN TO IT. YOUR EARS WILL THANK YOU.

Friday evening finds Illya glaring into the middle distance above Mrs. Vanlian’s head as she fusses with the tie (the _noose_ ) around his neck. She slides the knot up against his throat with a masterful flick of the wrist, and Illya thinks of a short drop and a sudden stop. He scowls, forgetting that mothers have eyes on top of their heads. The pat on his cheek is a bit more forceful than it might have been after that, and her warm brown eyes have a glint of steel in them. 

“Behave,” she says firmly, in English, and then in Russian, “you dug yourself into this, now you must climb out.”

“Yes, Mrs. Vanlian,” he mutters in sullen Armenian, and she yanks on his tie so she can smack him on the head. 

“You are good boy,” she says, still holding onto the tie. “Act like it.” Then she kisses his cheek and lets him go with a smile. “And have fun! It is not every day you get to go to a fancy dinner party, is it?”

“No, Mrs. Vanlian,” he agrees with a stiff smile, and wishes to god it weren’t today, either.

* * *

Lest there be any doubt, this is entirely the fault of Napoleon Solo and his croissants.

As if there _could_ be doubt about that.

* * *

The preceding Tuesday is an otherwise normal day of the week, all things considered. Illya goes to work, stopping at La Mie on his way to pick up his now-regular order of croissants. He has learned to endure the crowd inside and only occasionally finds himself fighting down the urge to break his own fingers simply to pass the time. The brown paper bag is ready and waiting on the counter by the time he gets to the till, but he checks inside partly for practicality’s sake but also just a little bit to be annoying. Four croissants, perfect and warm, as usual. 

“Peril,” Solo says, with his strange, wry amusement and rings up the order. Just _once_ Illya comes in covered in plaster dust, and Solo nearly has an apoplexy shooing him away from the counter because _for God’s sake, I_ just _put these out! Stop imperiling the palmiers and go brush yourself off!_

“Cowboy,” Illya returns, and earns himself a flat look. Solo’s apron is plain white while the bakery is open, but he has an _array_ for when he’s off the clock. The one with the horses and cactuses is permanently imprinted on Illya’s brain, and he’s never going to let Solo forget it. 

He goes to work, eating one croissant on the way, and remarks — as always — that Solo has not yet taken his advice. 

That doesn’t stop him from eating the rest of them with just as much relish later on, but still.

It starts to rain a little after his lunch break, which is miserable but, according to his supervisors, not really a problem. It’s only roofing — it’s not like he needs proper traction to avoid falling to his death, or anything, and God forbid this block not be completed to deadline. He’s in far too sour a mood to return to La Mie afterwards, and so he goes straight home. 

On Wednesday, Solo is a mess. 

That would be too strong a descriptor for anyone else in the same situation, but compared to his usual pristine presentation, it is apt. His hair is just a touch too rumpled and his smile just a bit too rigid. There is a noticeable smear of something on his apron, and his sleeves are rolled unevenly. There are five croissants in Illya’s bag. There’s nothing outside to suggest that the world is ending, and yet it would seem that Judgement Day is upon them. “You okay?” Illya asks, shelling out the extra coins despite the fact that Solo doesn’t seem to have noticed the surfeit. 

“Fine,” Solo tells him with an over-bright grin that doesn’t hide the crazed gleam of exhaustion in his too-wide eyes.

“I’ll come back later,” Illya says carefully, somewhere between a question and a promise, and takes the bag from the counter with slow, deliberate motions.

The grin falters for half an instant before returning a few shades more forced. “Please don’t.”

* * *

Illya heads straight home after work to clean up and offer his apologies to the Vanlians.

“Yes,” Mariam agrees darkly when Illya describes Solo’s state that morning. “I went after school, and he had flour in his hair. Is he cracking? Is he _dying?_ ” She gestures expansively, as if to indicate that this is a question that may never be answered. 

Illya rolls his eyes, which encourages her only marginally less than smiling. “He’s not _dying_ , he’s busy.”

“That’s what he _wants_ you to think.”

“It is good of you to help him, ձանս,” Mrs. Vanlian interrupts, and steers Mariam towards the kitchen table, where her two sisters, Yeva and Siran, are very obviously not doing their homework. “Mariam, գնա անեք ձեր տնային. եւ օգնել ձեր քույրերին,” she adds, with a meaningful stare at the forgotten books. She comes back to the doorway, where Illya is waiting and trying not to hunch over. He always feels far too tall in this home of small people. “No apology necessary,” she continues, returning to Russian. “We will do another night, and if not, the party will come soon enough.” 

Illya thanks her, stumbling only slightly over the Armenian syllables, and returns to his own apartment across the hall to inhale a decidedly unimpressive meal before heading out again.

The bakery’s door is locked when Illya arrives, but he’s learned to recognize the faint light emanating from the hidden kitchen, and he didn’t leave Russia with _no_ skills. It takes perhaps longer than it should, but he gets the door open with two hairpins and a friendly shove, and then manages to stifle the bell above before it can make too much of a racket. Not that it would have mattered — given the noise coming from the kitchen, Solo probably wouldn’t notice if someone smashed in the front windows.

Illya relocks the door behind him and slips across the room, behind the counter, and around the partial wall that screens the kitchen entrance from the seating area.

The kitchen is a maelstrom of activity. All three of the industrial stand mixers are running, along with most of the fans, and the ovens and refrigerators fill what’s left of the silence with a low, faintly vibrating hum. Steam rises from pots pushed back to simmer on the stovetop along the far wall, and there’s flour _everywhere_.

Not for the first time, Illya recalls that this building had previously belonged to a milliner, and had seemingly changed hands very quickly. Consternation has long since faded to a feeling of resigned inevitability, however, and it no longer galls him to think of how much _work_ — plumbing, wiring, ventilating, tiling, plastering, and on and on and _on_ — must have gone into the transition. The more he has gotten to know Solo, the more he has realized that hard work veiled as effortless happenstance is no less taxing for its appearance. 

Needless to say, this is not something he ever plans on admitting out loud.

Solo is visible only from the neck down, head obscured by a line of shiny copper pots hanging down from a rack on the ceiling, and the large knife in one hand stops Illya from announcing himself. He’s chopping…mushrooms, it looks like, at a rate that for anyone else would be ill-advised. 

“Do you often skip dinner with your neighbors to break into bakeries?” The question is casual, and the knife doesn’t falter, so Illya feels he isn’t risking life and limb (his own or anyone else’s) by snorting.

“The two are not mutually inclusive, but one or the other…more often than you might think. How did you know?”

“Well, I was _fairly_ sure I’d locked the door—”

“Cowboy.”

A portion of Solo’s head appears in the gap between pan, one bright blue eye and half of a grin. “Mariam told me,” he admits after a bit, and disappears again. “It’s her birthday this weekend, did you know? I think she wants me to make her a cake, but she never quite got around to asking.”

“She thinks you’re dying,” Illya explains, wandering a bit further into the kitchen. 

“Really? That’s unfortunate.” He sounds not at all concerned.

“Or ‘cracking,’ I think she said. Something to do with flour in your hair.”

Solo hums. “Afraid she’s not too far off the mark, there.” He doesn’t specify which remark he’s referring to, and Illya doesn’t feel the need to ask since it’s almost definitely both.

“So, will you?” Illya asks. He sizes up one of the refrigerators, figures it’s at least as sturdy as it looks, and leans against it. The metal is cool against his back, almost soothing in the warm, close air, and he has a better view.

“Will I what?” The knife flicks across the cutting board, sending the mushrooms neatly into a waiting bowl, which in turn is whirled away and up-ended into a pan on the stove. They sizzle and spit, and Solo gives the pan a few sharp swirls before covering it and turning back to his cutting board.

“Make her a cake.”

Solo smiles the same forced smile from that morning. “I would love to, Peril, really I would, but you may have noticed that I’m just a bit swamped at the moment.”

“I had noticed,” Illya agrees.

“Then for God’s sake get over here and make yourself useful,” Solo snaps, and so begins one of the longest, strangest nights of Illya’s life.

Solo makes him roll up his sleeves and wash his hands to the elbow, then tosses him an apron and gives him a lightning-quick tour of the kitchen before putting him in charge of the pie crust. 

“Ingredients are simple, technique is straightforward, but I want it rolled out six times and it should be no more than a quarter inch thick when you cut it.” Solo slaps down a recipe scrawled in what is no doubt far from his best handwriting, and opens his mouth to continue being exacting and pretentious, but Illya takes him by the shoulders and forcibly turns him back to the intimidating pile of bell peppers waiting to be chopped. 

“I know how to handle a pie crust, Cowboy,” he says, and proceeds to handle it.

The quiches — twelve dozen mini-quiches, to be precise, all stuffed with ham and mushrooms and peppers and perched in impeccably flaky crusts — are finished, wrapped, and stacked in the refrigerator by nine o’clock. Solo had stopped partway through to pull the dough from the mixers and shape it, so when the quiches are done, the bread begins. Illya attends to the baking while Solo turns his knife to a mountain of tomatoes, and so it goes.

They don’t talk much, so it takes Illya a little while to figure out what’s happening, but he’s not an idiot. Solo is having him assist with the baking for the day ahead, while Solo himself prepares incrementally for something else entirely. Rolls, pastries, and appetizers that Illya has never seen sold in La Mie take gradual shape — a filling here, set aside or chilled for later, a topping there, a practice run of things for which even Solo has to consult recipes. Illya, meanwhile, is given the straightforward breads and some of the simpler tarts, things that require time and attention but not great amount of finesse.

Around two in the morning, Solo glances at the clock, does a double-take, peers at it like he doesn’t quite believe what he sees, and sends Illya home. He doesn’t apologize for keeping him late, although he has to know that Illya needs to be at his own work in only a few hours.

That morning, Illya oversleeps for the first time in years, and he doesn’t have time to stop for his croissants.

It’s oddly upsetting.

* * *

Thursday evening, Illya goes home, showers, and returns to La Mie to find it – and Solo – in much the same state as the previous night (down to the locked door, which Illya thinks is solely for his personal irritation). Solo just points to the sink once he sees him, and Illya dutifully begins to scrub. “When is your event?” he asks, to break the silence.

“Tomorrow,” Solo tells him, and Illya stiffens. If yesterday had been bad, tonight will be hellish. “Tomorrow _night_ ,” Solo clarifies, and Illya relaxes a bit. “So we have twenty-two hours,” he concludes, which is not at _all_ conducive to relaxation.

“Have you considered closing bakery tomorrow?” Illya asks as he dries his hands.

“And why would I do that?”

“So you can sleep?” Illya suggests.

“Hah,” says Solo, tonelessly. Illya doesn’t bother trying to persuade him, just resolves to match him, hour for hour. Solo obviously hasn’t slept in some time, and if he can manage, so can Illya.

Tired Solo is quiet, Illya discovers, almost taciturn. His directions are curt, his observations brief, his answers to Illya’s questions succinct, and his responses to Illya’s comments nonexistent. He has a list of all that they need to do, which he passes to Illya in lieu of speaking whenever it’s more convenient for him. Regular Solo is a chatterbox (a word he picked up from Davit, the youngest Vanlian, whose teacher has apparently used it to describe him on several occasions), and Illya finds he almost misses it: the casual ribbing, the off-hand remarks, the good-natured denunciation of his technique.

They do another batch of quiches — the first had been a test-run, apparently, to gauge their reception — then Solo turns Illya loose on the bread and starts mixing up several kinds of batter. 

Illya loses himself to the background noise and the feel of the dough under his hands; he looks up a few dozen baguettes later to find Solo wordlessly holding out a cup of coffee.

“I thought you didn’t make coffee,” he says after a moment, recalling their first meeting.

Solo actually quirks a smile at that. “This is New York, Peril,” he says. “Everyone makes coffee. More importantly, everyone drinks it.”

“Not me,” Illya tells him. “But thank you.”

“You’ll need it eventually,” Solo says drily. 

“Perhaps,” Illya agrees, “but not yet.”

“You sure?” Solo asks, with just a little too much nonchalance. 

Illya sighs. “Drink your coffee, Cowboy.”

* * *

It’s been a while since Illya’s had to work through the night, but like most habits, it’s not hard to fall back on. The work is soothing, in a way, and he and Solo slip into teamwork far more easily than he’d expected. Solo checks the timers on the bread when he passes, taking out and turning batches as he needs to while Illya’s up to his elbows in dough that needs a bit more flour; Illya wipes up his counters when he’s away at the mixers or making more coffee, and chips away at the mountain of dirty dishes and utensils whenever he finds a free moment. They know when to get out of each other’s way and when to offer a hand, and Illya is rapidly becoming proficient in reading Solo’s minute expressions and gestures, which can mean anything from _come here_ to _you’re using the wrong knife._

Night gradually turns over into morning. There are no windows in the kitchen, but the clock has been marching inexorably onward, the small hours becoming larger. Solo is icing tiny layered cakes with the careful precision born of exhaustion and too much caffeine, so Illya takes the croissant dough from the refrigerator. It’s already been laminated and folded three times, but there’s enough time until opening for one more. He rubs a handful of flour into the countertop and goes searching for a rolling pin.

“Croissants are already done,” Solo calls without looking up.

“No, they are not,” says Illya. “You still have not taken my advice.” He locates a rolling pin in one of the drawers near where Solo is hunched over the rotating cake stand. He half expects Solo to physically stop him, but Solo is either too tired or too far past caring to do anything other than glare. That, or he thinks the glare itself is sufficient. 

It isn’t.

Unfazed, Illya takes the rolling pin back to his area and unwraps the dough.

“Peril,” Solo says mildly, with steel underneath. “Baguettes are one thing, but croissants are a whole other—”

Illya folds the dough in thirds and rolls it out with one long sweep of the rolling pin. “You wanted me to help,” he says, “so I help.”

Solo takes a breath, as if to give Illya a piece of his mind, but after a brief pause he simply sighs and goes back to his cakes.

“If you ruin them, there will be consequences,” is all he says.

Illya doesn’t believe him.

This is a mistake.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally learned how to do the hover translations! I've also added them to the first chapter, so if that was driving you crazy, you can go back and read in peace. Instead of the Latin transliterations I was using before, every language is in its own script, but the hover translations are formatted thusly
> 
> текст
> 
> with the transliteration displayed before the translation so that you don't just look at Armenian and make confused whale noises in your head the way I do.

Illya doesn’t ruin the croissants — quite the opposite, in fact — but apparently Solo takes issue with him anyway, since Illya returns from a gruelingly long day of tearing down walls and instead of falling into his bed to sleep for twelve hours, he is met at his door by Mrs. Vanlian, who is holding, of all things, a Givenchy suit and an invitation to a gallery opening.

“What,” says Illya, but he has an awful, awful feeling about this, and it’s strong enough to keep the word from becoming a question.

“From your friend,” Mrs. Vanlian beams.

Oh, no. Oh, _no_.

“No,” Illya tells her, as firmly as he dares. “No, I will not, this is ridiculous, he cannot just—”

“He says he forgot to mention it earlier,” Mrs. Vanlian continues, heedless of his protests, “and he brought this over for you so you wouldn’t have to rush about and find one.”

Illya’s awful feeling grows to include the absolute surety that, despite the lack of any sort of labels, the suit is precisely his size and perfectly cut. Later, it will occur to him that he didn’t even question Solo’s ability to afford such a thing; like everything else about Solo, the suit simply _is_ , delivered so unapologetically that the possibility of artifice seems insignificant at best.

Solo is a baker in a neighborhood that is far from affluent, but more importantly, he is Solo. Of course he would provide Illya with bespoke suits for gallery openings to which he had secretly been invited. 

Naturally. 

Бог.

Anyway, here he is with a designer suit and an embossed invitation and a neighbor who has no intention of letting him slip out of this.

He explains everything, and in the end Mrs. Vanlian just laughs.

“He’s thanking you, ձանս,” she tells him. “You helped him, and he is giving you credit.”

“He is _humiliating_ me,” Illya corrects. “He only wants me there so I can suffer with him.”

“Illya Kuraykin,” she says firmly, planting one small finger in the center of his chest — right in his solar plexus, actually; whether it’s deliberate or just a convenient height for her, it’s decidedly threatening — “you are going to this gallery.” And that’s that.

He cleans up quickly and exudes as much sullen discontent as he can while she helps him with his tie, and earns himself a smack on the head for his lack of enthusiasm.

Mrs. Vanlian’s final point is her most salient one: the food, at least, will almost certainly be good.

The company, however, is sure to be insufferable, artificial, and entirely too self-absorbed, and that’s not to mention the innumerable others that Illya will be forced to endure in addition to Solo.

(As it happens, presuppositions about the nature of the company turn out to be Illya’s second mistake of the day.)

* * *

The address on the invitation places his destination in Midtown, and since he has no desire to walk three and a half miles after the day (and night) he’s had, he drops a couple of dollars on an outrageously over-priced and almost certainly unlicensed cab.

As far as capitalist excesses go, that’s hardly going to be the worst of tonight.

That particular suspicion is confirmed the moment he steps out of the car on East 57th street. The new Pace Gallery is on the second and third floors of a stone building the color of Grecian ruins, and he’s being asked for his invitation before he’s even through the inner set of brass-framed glass doors. The man he hands it to peers at it carefully before turning the same scrutiny on him, and Illya can’t help but feel a momentary gratitude for Solo’s sartorial choice. The fabric is a dark charcoal, lightweight and exquisitely tailored (if perhaps a bit more fitted than he would have chosen for himself), framing a deep plum tie against a crisp shirt the color of an overcast sky. Apparently, it will suffice.

He passes muster, and the doorman waves him on to the steps beyond the foyer.

The space into which he emerges is both everything and nothing like he had feared. The gallery walls are white, the floors pale, gleaming hardwood, and the floor plan open and airy. The problem is that it's filled with people.

It is, come to think of it, not all that unlike La Mie, down to the presence of Solo himself, who appears out of nowhere to take Illya’s arm and sweep him off to the side just before observation can turn to gawking. 

“Best act like you belong here, Peril,” he says breezily, maneuvering the two of them through the throngs of tastefully dressed party-goers that Illya so earnestly does not want to consort with. 

“I hate you,” Illya tells him through a false smile, but Solo only grins back. _He_ looks like he belongs here, sharp in a navy Brioni and absent all signs of the exhaustion that is currently plaguing his unwitting partner-in-baking turned partner-in… There is an English word for this, a word he quite likes, but it’s evading the tip of his tongue. Sounds like bastardized Russian, or perhaps Yiddish...

He’s so busy trying to think of it that he stops paying attention to where they’re going and simply lets Solo steer him, trusting that he won’t be run into a wall or through a tray of champagne glasses. At some point the ambient background turns to pale blue, and the crowds thicken along with the press of conversation and movement, although Solo skirts them around the edges, and he catches impressions of color and fabric and the glint of light on glass, and— _Schmoozing,_ he remembers, triumphant, and feels Solo jolt to a stop a step in front of him, hand still gripping his elbow.

“Everything all right?” he asks after a beat, looking back, amicable mask dipping into bemusement. It takes Illya half a second to realize that he had stopped first, overcome with his epiphany of language. 

Illya opens his mouth, prepared to answer curtly that he’s fine and continue walking, but abruptly recalls the train of thought that had led to his momentary lapse. Solo doesn’t appear tired in the slightest, not a hair out of place or a line on his face to indicate that he probably hasn’t slept in thirty-six hours. Illya peers closer, trying to find something, _anything_ , but Solo is as sleek and poised as the day they met; a far cry from the rumpled, near-mute figure of fourteen hours ago. As if he knows precisely what Illya is thinking, Solo smiles, slow and devious, and the gleam in his eye is nothing short of devilish. 

“I _hate_ you,” Illya says again, but this time he really, truly, very genuinely means it. 

“No you don’t,” Solo promises, like the ass he is, and rocks back on his heels, effectively tugging on his arm (like the _child_ he is), to get him walking again. “Come on now, Peril, there are people to meet and things to eat and I’ll be damned if I let you hide somewhere and sulk the whole time.”

“No,” Illya agrees darkly. “I don't suppose that would be good behavior for arm candy.”

Solo laughs at that, bright and genuine and a little bit startled. “Peril,” he says, reattaching himself to Illya’s side, “I have got to know where you learned your English. But you have to admit, you do make _excellent_ arm candy.” 

Illya most emphatically does not admit, but that doesn’t stop him from being hauled around like it anyway. The only thing not awful about this evening so far is that he hasn’t been asked to talk to anyone, and it’s at this point precisely that Solo drops his arm, strides up to a small, colorful figure with her back to them, and announces himself rather loudly.

“Gaby, my dear,” he says, voice warm with fondness, and extends his hand just as she begins to turn. She catches his fingertips with hers, and he pulls himself in those final inches before bending to kiss her hand. The whole thing is so smooth and languid that Illya feels his hatred condensing even further, prickling uncomfortably close to the surface of his skin. Oh god, he thinks inanely, he’s about to start sweating hatred, but then he takes a closer look at the woman Solo’s with. More accurately, he takes a closer look at the pair of them, together, and sees Solo’s effusive, good-natured charm coming up short against a wall of complete indifference and polite disinterest. 

Well. 

_Well._

He’s never seen _that_ before.

* * *

Gaby Teller is something akin to a natural phenomenon, Illya decides eventually. She shares a few notable traits with Mrs. Vanlian, such as being tiny and fierce, and she commands attention and respect without contriving to do so. 

She also, Illya comes to realize over the course of the evening, has Solo wrapped around her little finger. If he didn’t know Solo as well as he did, he might not have seen it, but the signs are there for someone who’s spent any considerable amount of time with him. Solo has never been disrespectful to women, at least that Illya has witnessed, but he’s an eternal charmer: offering compliments like _amuse-bouches_ , arranging himself just so, and if his gentle overtures of interest are returned, responding as though eloquence and geniality are contests of wit and character. Flirting, for him, seems to be a game of intellect, with no goal beyond drawing out a smile, or a laugh, or the brightening of a heavy countenance.

It’s not that he doesn’t flirt with Gaby, but he does so differently. He calls her dear, and darling, and inserts himself comfortably in her space, fingers brushing against her shoulder, her wrist, her waist, but he does so for her amusement rather than his own. She lets him, rather like she would a cat, and he seems just about as happy as one. 

Honestly, Illya can see why. 

She’s not the most powerful person in the room, but that hardly matters. What matters is that no one manages to overshadow her, and so she resides in an understated spotlight entirely of her own making. She’d planned the event, and everyone seems to appreciate that they are there by her grace, if not at her behest. 

“Tell me about the croissants,” she says, after Illya's thanked her for the invitation (and hopefully appeared suitably grateful) and she's brushed it off as a favor to Solo (whose odds of escaping the evening unscathed are steadily dwindling), and he finds himself blinking to hide a mind gone suddenly blank. It doesn’t help that he’s alone with Gaby in a little pocket of space and suddenly feeling miles too tall. Solo had simply dropped him within speaking distance, introduced Illya as “Peril,” complimented Gaby’s dress, and wandered off to inspect the artwork hung on the nearest wall.

“Peril’s been demeaning my croissants since the day we met,” Solo says dismissively, peering closely at a painting.

“Yes, so you've mentioned,” Gaby tosses back at him. “Quite often, I might add.” Her accent is light, British English layered over native German, but the cadence of her voice is more piquant than either language would account for, and Illya finds himself struggling to remain straight-faced. If only he weren't so damnably tired…

Solo looks up with an easy grin, then goes back to his painting without offering further conversational support. Illya glares at the back of his head. It glares back, offensively glossy.

“I’ve heard more than enough about Solo’s injured pride,” Gaby continues, returning her attention to Illya, who hurriedly drops the glare in favor of something less accusing. "But I’m curious: how precisely did you get mixed up in all of this?” She gestures to the gallery with her glass of champagne, making sure to include the elaborate displays of canapés and baked goods set up in the center of one of the larger rooms. 

“One of my neighbors said that he made the best croissants in New York,” Illya admits. "I could not let that claim go unchallenged.”

Gaby's eyebrows fly up. "You thought you could do better?" 

Illya can't very well say, _No, I just couldn't stand the thought of someone that unapologetically showy actually being good at anything,_ though he's probably only a few more sleepless hours away from doing so. "No," he says instead, taking firm hold of his wandering thoughts. "I did not trust the judgement of a twelve-year-old, and I wanted to form my own opinion." 

“Because you thought you could do better,” Gaby says again, knowingly, then takes his hesitation as affirmation and grins. “Solo’s good at what he does, but he knows that well enough without being told. I think it’s good for him to have someone question him every now and again.”

“Do you know him well?” Illya asks. She talks about him as she does, but she shakes her head.

“I only met him in person this afternoon,” she says, and it’s a fight not to let the surprise show on his face. 

“You seem to have him...figured out,” Illya ventures cautiously. He’s only too aware that he’s in no position to be asking her such prying questions, given that he’s only known her for a few minutes, but he’s curious about this decidedly odd dynamic. Gaby takes a sip of her champagne, then looks over to where Solo is transitioning from art to people, giving every impression of being the man of the hour rather than the baker who’d supplied the refreshments. 

“He doesn’t exactly hide,” Gaby points out drily, but the criticism doesn’t quite cover up the fondness in her voice. 

“No,” Illya agrees, watching Solo shake a stranger’s hand and give him a jovial slap on the back before heading off to insert himself into the next cluster of oblivious targets. “He most certainly does not.” 

They’re silent for a few moments, just observing the ebb and flow of the gallery. 

“Why did you choose him?” Illya asks eventually. “There are bakeries all over the city, and certainly closer ones.” 

Gaby smiles, but it’s tight and cold. “He was the first one I called who did not insist on speaking to my boss, or to my husband.”

“Ah,” Illya says, well and truly trapped in a corner of his own making, and Gaby’s smile warms. 

“I don’t have either,” she says, saving him from having to ask, “and apparently that is very difficult for a man to understand. Solo simply told me it would take four days, I told him to make it three, and here we are.” 

Illya huffs a little laugh at the image the description conjures up: Gaby hanging up on Solo’s protests and Solo, affronted, staring at the phone in his hand for several long seconds before sighing and getting to work. It would explain his state on Wednesday if he’d gotten the call early that morning, or the previous evening, and Illya allows himself a few moments to relish the memory. Gaby seems to share his amusement, or at least find her own amusement in the retelling, as she smirks into her glass before polishing it off. 

“I’m afraid I have to go and mingle, now,” she says, sounding mildly regretful. “Shall I find Solo and send him back this way?”

Illya considers it, just for an instant, just to be annoying, but decides against it. “He won’t be hard to find,” he assures her. “I’m sure I can manage.” He offers to take her empty glass, and she places it in his hand with the barest touch of fingers. “It was nice to meet you,” he says, more genuinely than he had thanked her for the invitation. 

“Nice to meet you, too,” she says. “I’m sure we’ll run into each other again.”

And with that, she sets off into the undulating sea of people.

* * *

She’s right, of course, in the way that Illya will simply come to accept that she’s right about most things. 

Tracking Solo through a crowd is about as difficult as tracking a powerboat through a pond, and Solo greets him with jovial good cheer, reaffixing himself to Illya’s arm as though there’s nothing odd about it and effervescently filling him in on all of the in-room gossip, art history, and societal happenings. He barely seems to pause for breath, and over the next half hour Illya realizes that he was very, very wrong in his earlier assumption. 

Tired Solo is quiet, but truly exhausted Solo _cannot shut up_. 

He says as much, and Solo just grins up at him. “How successful d’you imagine I’d be if a few sleepless nights turned me into a grump like you?” he asks, and cuts to the side to drag Illya to a table of refreshments. “What you need is food,” he says brightly, and it is there that Gaby finds them, with Solo heaping his plate full of the tiny cakes he’d so painstakingly iced that morning and chattering away about something that Illya has stopped listening to entirely. 

“You make quite the pair,” Gaby says as she nears them, then, half as loud and twice as fervent, “Gott, I am _starving_.” She, being sensible, goes for the quiches rather than the pure sugar that Solo seems to be planning on killing him with, and pauses only to peer critically at them and say, “Really, Solo — paprika?” before taking two in each hand and inhaling them in such rapid succession that all Illya can do is watch with something like awe kindling in his heart.

Then she licks her fingers industriously, wipes them clean on a paper napkin, smooths her dress, and glides off without a word. 

Illya turns to Solo and finds him momentarily silent, wearing the same dumbstruck expression that Illya can no longer contain. “Damn,” Solo says after a while. “I like her. Not as much as you seem to,” he adds as an afterthought, then plows cheerfully over Illya’s outburst of muddled protesting. “Eat your cake, Peril, and then we’d best be on our way. I’m liable to fall asleep if I stand in one place for too long.”

* * *

They cross paths with Gaby a few more times over the next hour, but even Solo’s cakes aren’t enough to keep him from descending dangerously into the territory of _sullen asshole_ even as Solo grows ever more good-natured and flirtatious.

The fourth time they see Gaby, just after ten o’clock, she turns them around, slips between them, plants a tiny hand on each of their backs, and sweeps them along to the staircase. “Go home,” she says firmly. “Illya looks like he’s ready to murder someone, and Solo, you look like a madman. Thank you for coming, thank you for all of your hard work, but you need to _sleep. Both_ of you,” she snaps before Solo can draw breath to argue. “I have a car waiting for you outside. Get in it, and let the driver take you home.”

Illya remembers the vice-like clamp of Solo’s hand around his upper arm as they navigated the marble steps leading to the first floor, and he remembers Solo putting a hand on his head to keep him from hitting it on the the frame of the car door as he slid into the low seat, and after that, nothing. 

 

Well, nothing until Solo shakes him awake and Illya nearly punches him. That’s a memory he’ll treasure later, if it survives the night. The car door on his side is open, and Solo is leaning on it, looking suddenly gaunt in the half-light of a street lamp as he waits for Illya to figure out what’s happening. 

“We’re here?” Illya asks, once he does.

“If by ‘here’ you mean your apartment building, then yes,” Solo says. 

Illya climbs laboriously from the car and unfolds himself with a great deal of discomfort. He may have been too asleep to notice at the time, but the backseat is considerably too small for someone his height. 

“Would you mind waiting a bit?” Solo asks the driver, and must get an affirmative since there’s no further exchange. He keeps a hand on Illya’s back as they make their interminable way up five dark flights of stairs, surrounded by a silence that is all the more pronounced for its contrast to Solo's earlier mania. Whether the touch is meant to steady or merely to encourage, Illya doesn’t have the energy to give more than a passing thought, but he does appreciate it. Solo could easily have dropped him off and gone on, trusting that Illya wouldn’t sink down on a landing halfway up and go back to sleep. 

They get to his floor, and as Illya fumbles with his keys, the door across the hall opens and Mrs. Vanlian’s gentle greetings are a balm to his ears. “Good evening, ձանս, she says softly in Armenian, and then, in Russian, “Good evening, Mr. Solo.” 

Illya is about to interpret for him when Solo returns her ‘good evening’ in lightly accented but comfortable Russian. “I trust I didn’t keep him out too late?” he adds, a wry smile evident in his voice. Illya gets the door open, then turns to properly greet his neighbor. She’s smiling at Solo’s question, but her eyes go soft and sympathetic when he faces her. “Oh, Illyusha, you’re dead on your feet,” she says, then turns her maternal gaze on Solo and clucks. “And you, Mr. Solo — no better than he is.”

Solo looks respectfully ashamed until she turns back to Illya, then mouths _Illyusha_ over her head, positively delighted. Illya tries to convey the precise manner in which he intends to kill him without alarming or alerting Mrs. Vanlian, but if he succeeds, Solo is unfazed by the threat. Mrs. Vanlian is saying something in Armenian of which Illya catches every third word but surmises is a kind but firm command for him to go to bed and sleep for as long as he can. He nods, which seems to satisfy her, but she stops him before he can step over his threshold. In a mirror of her gesture earlier that evening ( Бог, was that really only a few hours ago?), she tugs on his tie to get him to bend down. Instead of smacking him on the head, though, she works at the knot of silk at his throat; what would have taken him frustrated minutes only takes her seconds, and she pats his lapels, kisses him on the forehead, and sends him off. 

He closes the door on her soft Russian queries as to whether or not Solo would be more comfortable spending the night with them. He staggers away before he can catch the answer, stripping off his clothes without a care to where or how they land, and falls into bed with his trousers still on. They may never be the same, but he’s just glad he was able to manage his shoes. 

_Since when does Solo speak Russian?_ he wonders absently, and then he’s asleep.

* * *

He sleeps for fourteen hours, and his initial irritation that it hadn’t been more is overcome when he sees the handwritten note lying on the floor in front of his door. 

_You are invited to Mariam Vanlian’s 13th birthday party,_ it says, in carefully lettered English. _Please RVSP by coming across the hall when you wake up. No presents required, only your presence!_ It’s finished off with a doodle of some balloons, and Illya can’t help but smile.

He gets dressed in something considerably more suitable than what he’d slept in — those trousers are indeed creased beyond salvation, but he can’t imagine he’ll ever need them again — splashes some cold water on his face, runs a hand through his hair, and figures that’s as good as it’s going to get without another eight hours of sleep, a solid meal, and a long shower. 

He doesn’t quite stumble across the hall, but it’s a near thing, especially when the door is opened by Solo rather than one of the people who actually live there. “There you are,” he says, ignoring Illya’s dazed blinking. “I was wondering if I was going to have to break down your door.” 

“What are you doing here?” Illya finally asks, to which Solo sighs and tugs Illya inside. 

“I was invited, funnily enough. Come on, everyone insisted on waiting for you.” This last is said with a significant look at the kitchen table, where all four Vanlian children are sitting with their hands primly folded in a blatant mockery of patience. Mr. and Mrs. Vanlian appear carrying large plates (keeping warm in the oven, judging by the oven mitts both are wearing to handle them), which they set on folded towels on the table before greeting Illya warmly and enthusiastically and whapping their children on the heads with the soft mitts for their facetiousness. 

Solo sits between Yeva and Siran (the two middle sisters), Illya sits between Davit and Mrs. Vanlian, Mr. Vanlian sits on Mariam’s other side, between her and Yeva, and Mariam sits proudly at the head of the table. The kitchen, like the rest of the apartment, is larger than Illya’s but small for six people, though it never feels insufficient. The crowded elbows are friendly, the clatter of voices and cutlery is warm, and the food is bountiful. The large plates are of _dolma_ and _kufta_ respectively; grape leaves stuffed with spiced meat and rice, and beef meatballs rich with onion and herbs. There is a basket piled high with beautiful _matnakash,_ and bowls of hearty pilaf. They eat until they’re full, and then they eat some more simply to be sociable. Solo is mellow but charming nonetheless, and Siran in particular seems to be entertaining herself by trying to teach him a handful of completely useless Armenian phrases. Yeva just snickers at them, but Illya can't tell if it's because of Solo’s attempts or the outlandish words her sister is picking. Davit wants to practice his Russian with Illya, but Mrs. Vanlian heads him off with a question about the ‘gallery party,’ and the conversation drifts from the gallery to the art in it and then somehow lands on the ins and outs of professional baking. If Illya’s having trouble keeping up with the three languages in his sleep-deprived state, it’s immensely gratifying to watch Solo struggle even more with his complete lack of Armenian. 

Once the conversation begins to dwindle, as conversation inevitably does after large and satisfying meals, Mr. and Mrs. Vanlian stand and begin clearing dishes away to the sink, the counter, and anywhere else there’s room. This seems to be some kind of cue, as a few moments later, Solo is excusing himself and pushing back his chair as well. 

Instead of going to help with the dishes, though, as Illya half expects him to, he disappears into one of the bedrooms and returns with a familiar white box. 

There is a unanimous gasp from the children, and it is with great ceremony that Solo sets the box on the freshly cleared table, opens it, and lifts out a cake. 

It is simple, but elegant: forest green icing against ivory fondant, the graceful curves of Armenian script surrounded by a design that Illya would guess mimics some form of embroidery. 

_Տնուդատ Շնորհավոր, Մարիամ_ , it says, and the letters still confuse his Cyrillic-trained eyes but the meaning of this one is clear.

Mariam squeals when she sees it, and launches herself out of her seat to wrap her lanky arms around Solo’s waist in a fierce hug. “You did it,” she says into his shirt. “I didn’t think you would, but you did, and it’s beautiful. Thank you, Mr. Solo, thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Solo looks like he doesn’t quite know what to do with this, but eventually settles on squeezing her shoulders and saying, “It was my pleasure.” 

Mariam is distinctly bright-eyed when she lets go, but no one comments, and if Solo still looks a bit shell-shocked by the display of affection, everyone is conveniently blind to that, as well. 

The cake is _incredible_ — it’s draped with marzipan, not just ordinary rolled fondant, and the cake itself is a mouthwatering Angel Food bursting with nuts and sweet spices. They barely put a dent in it, sated as they are from the main meal, but not for lack of trying. Afterwards, the children and the guests are shooed to the living room (Solo does actually attempt to help with the dishes, as does Illya, and both are politely but firmly told to put such thoughts from their minds), where everyone finds some soft surface or other and falls into a sugar-induced stupor. 

There will be presents later, Illya suspects, but he’s not entirely sure he’ll be awake for them, and without one of his own to give, he’s not sure he _should_ be there for them. He ponders this for a bit, and considers when and where he might be able to find a gift to make it up to her, but that’s about as far as he gets before dozing off. 

He wakes with Mrs. Vanlian’s hand on his shoulder, and is comforted to see that everyone else in the living room is in a similar state. Solo’s stretched out on one of the couches with a blanket over him, the three girls are sprawled together like puppies on the smaller couch, and Davit is on his father’s lap in an armchair. “Did you want this chair?” Illya asks stupidly, and then mentally kicks himself. Mrs. Vanlian chuckles.

“No,” she says, “I was just worried about your neck. Would you like a pillow, or…?”

Not for the first time, Illya is humbled by the kindness of this family, and this woman in particular, who can raise four children and still have room in her heart for one more. 

“No, thank you,” he says quietly, wary of waking anyone else. “But I’m afraid I won’t be good company much longer, and I might just…” He tips his head back towards the door, towards his room across the hall, and Mrs. Vanlian nods. 

“Of course, ձանս,” she says without hesitation, “that’s fine.”

She helps him pull himself up out of the chair, and tells him to come back in the evening for dinner if he likes, or to sleep the day away, whichever he would prefer. He’s almost out the door when he remembers Solo. He stops, turns, and looks back at him, deeply asleep with a light woolen blanket pulled up to his chin, hair falling to disarray against the pillow on the arm of the couch. “Did you want me to…” he starts, aware that he has no idea where Solo lives but feeling that he is, on some level, responsible for him, but Mrs. Vanlian stops him. 

“He’s fine where he is,” she says softly. “I think he’s earned a rest, don’t you?”

He does. 

Illya had slept the night through, while Solo had taken the time to craft an exquisite birthday cake. _That’s because it’s his job,_ says a rude voice in Illya’s head, but he shushes it. The gallery had been his job, and the daily operating of the bakery had been his job, but somehow Illya knows that Solo won’t accept payment for the cake. That had been a gift, and it would be unfair to deny the kindness that had gone into such an act. 

“Yes,” he says, “he has.”

“And so have you,” Mrs. Vanlian reminds him. “Off to bed with you, now.”

Really, he has no choice but to go.

Mrs. Vanlian would like Gaby, he thinks, as he prepares for bed a second time. Perhaps he could get Solo to orchestrate that meeting, too. 

But that’s a thought for another day, and for now, he climbs into bed, pulls the covers up around his shoulder, and feels himself sliding into sleep.

It’s been an odd few days, but not, he is forced to admit, entirely unenjoyable. Gaby, a gallery, a birthday party, and a strange sort of friendship — and none of it would have happened if not for the pressing question of some highly acclaimed croissants that had sent Illya to La Mie in the first place.

No, it hasn’t been entirely unenjoyable at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it! Feel free to leave any feedback you’d like to, particularly as this is unbeta’d and I’m still not entirely sure what to think about it. Too cracky? Not actually funny? Out of character? Not enough Gaby? (That's definitely true, but I do intend to write more Gaby later on.) Please let me know so I can fix things!

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: all translations (and transliterations) now via hover! Please let me know if anything isn't displaying properly, or if you see any mistakes!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] La Mie](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8752885) by [Annapods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annapods/pseuds/Annapods)




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